


Ad Meliora (Towards Better Things)

by lotherington



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, PWP, Priests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 20:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sherlock bent his head and took John’s face in his large hands. ‘I’m never wrong, John,’ he murmured, looking into John’s eyes before leaning in and pressing their lips together.</i></p><p>John Watson is a priest undergoing a crisis of faith, Sherlock is a trainee priest who makes it worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ad Meliora (Towards Better Things)

**Author's Note:**

> **Contains:** Priest!kink, blasphemy, religious themes, use of the Church/litany/religious rituals etc for pornographic purposes. Please don’t read if any of these things offend you.
> 
> My first go at Sherlock, way back in February. Still got a bit of a soft spot for this fic, even if I am very italic-happy with it. :)

John can pinpoint exactly the moment it happened.

The screech of the tyres. The agonised scream of a mother as her child was thrown several feet in the air and then landed in a heap on the road. The look on the face of the young girl behind the wheel.

That was when it had happened.

That was the moment his faith began to waver.

He’d run across the road and stopped the traffic, knelt down next to the boy, his cassock pooling around him. There was so much _blood_ , and he had no idea what to do, unsure of whether to touch the boy, to move him.

It hadn’t occurred to him to pray. Instead he’d shouted for someone to phone an ambulance, for people to move back, for someone to comfort the mother, to look at the poor girl who’d knocked the boy down and it _hadn’t been their fault_. None of them deserved this. Could a benevolent God, like the one he preached about, taught people about, knew, _loved_... could such a God let a thing like this happen?

Would it have happened had he not taken orders and completed his medical training instead?

He pulled himself back to the present with a deep breath, forcing his eyes open. He stood up from the pew he’d been sitting on for over an hour and straightened the plain black cassock he always wore, adjusting his dog collar. It had been an ever-present comfort for years, but he’d started to find it restricting in recent months.

‘Torturing yourself like this isn’t going to help. It wasn’t your fault.’ John turned at the sound of the rich, deep voice behind him.

‘I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Sherlock,’ he said mildly, addressing the young man who’d arrived from the seminary nearly a year ago. He was a brilliant - if infuriating - trainee priest who still hadn’t quite managed to grasp some of the finer points of good ministry, though what he didn’t know about scripture and the history of the Church could be written on the back of a postage stamp.

Sherlock smiled and walked up the aisle towards John, whose eyes were pulled to Sherlock’s full lower lip. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever asked for my opinion, Father,’ he said.

‘Please,’ John said, dragging his eyes up to meet Sherlock’s, the heavy, horrible guilt he always felt around the young man settling low in his stomach. ‘Please call me John.’

***

 _'We sinners,' John said, breathing heavily, one hand tangling in Sherlock's dark curls as Sherlock's perfect, perfect mouth moved slowly down his cock before pulling off, mumbling the response part of the litany around the head._

 _'Beseech Thee, hear us,' he said, running his tongue down the underside of John's prick. John's hand tightened in Sherlock's hair and he closed his eyes, fighting back a moan._

 _'That... that we may judge ourselves, and so escape Thy judgement -- ah!' John gasped, arching his back, his dog collar cutting painfully into his neck._

 _'We beseech Thee, hear us,' Sherlock murmured, his eyes flickering up to meet John's as he sunk down on John's cock again, swallowing around it, the heat and tightness impossible and wonderful._

 _'That we may bring forth worthy fruits of... of penance,' John said, his breath catching in his chest as he moved his hand down to cup Sherlock's jaw, not wanting him to pull away to speak the reply, needing more. Sherlock obeyed and stayed where he was, which was so unlike him, and John met his eyes as he whimpered and pushed his hips forward slightly, Sherlock beginning to struggle. He stayed where he was though, on his knees in front of John who was gripping the altar rail for support with one hand as the other wound into Sherlock's hair again, holding the back of his head, moaning unashamedly._

 _Sherlock moved one of his long-fingered hands up to grip John's shaft, pulling hard and fast, fire in his eyes as he stared up at John, murmuring the rest of the litany against John's hip._

 _'We beseech Thee, hear us, That sin may not reign in our mortal bodies, We beseech Thee, hear us. That we may work out our salvation with fear and trembling, We beseech Thee, hear us.'_

 _John swallowed and stroked Sherlock's cheek, his hands shaking as he tried to fight off the inevitable, tried and failed to swallow around his moans, tried not to be affected by Sherlock's voice and his mouth and his hands._

 _'Sherlock,' he gasped, the hand in Sherlock's hair tightening._

 _'Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world--'_

 _'Sherlock--'_

 _'Have mercy on us. Christ, hear--'_

 _'Sherlock,' John moaned, unable to look away from Sherlock's mouth, frantically forming the words of the litany, unable to stop anything, too far gone, far too far..._

 _'Christ, graciously hear us,' Sherlock said, moving his hand faster, sucking John again, the sound wet and loud and utterly obscene. 'O Lord, hear our prayer,' he murmured, squeezing tightly, twisting, pulling and then -_

 _'Sherlock!'_

 _Sherlock smirked, looking up at John, eyes dark, lips painted white with John's come._

 _'And let our cry come to Thee,' he whispered, pressing a kiss to John's hip._

John woke up with a start, the sheets clinging to his naked form, Sherlock's name on his lips. He released a shaking breath and clutched his head, rolling onto his side.

What the fuck was he going to do?

***

‘I was wondering,’ Sherlock said as he and John stood outside the door of the church after mass on Sunday, ‘Would you like to... come to my flat this afternoon?’ he asked, his hands linked behind his back.

John raised his eyebrows, somewhat panicked. ‘Your flat?’ he said. ‘What for?’

‘The ritual slaying of a baby goat, John, what do you think?’ Sherlock bit out, raising an eyebrow. ‘For tea,’ he sighed, looking exasperated.

‘Tea?’

‘Yes, John, _tea_ , that’s what people do, isn’t it?’

‘Well... well yes, I suppose,’ John said, frowning slightly, bemused at Sherlock’s apparent irritability about asking John round for something as simple as a cup of tea.

‘Forget I ever mentioned it,’ Sherlock said, striding back inside the church.

‘Sherlock, wait,’ John called, running to catch up with him, taking hold of Sherlock’s elbow once he’d reached him. ‘I’d really like that,’ he said quietly, smiling. He’d dismissed his dream as exactly that, a dream, and that strange feeling he got in the pit of his stomach when he was around Sherlock was because Sherlock was slightly unnerving and rarely blinked and because he seemed to know things about John without them ever being said. He dropped his hand from Sherlock’s elbow when Sherlock looked at it.

‘Right,’ Sherlock said. ‘Good. Do you... do you want to go now?’

John nodded. ‘Just let me get my coat,’ he said with another brief, slightly forced, smile.

***

‘This is lovely,’ John said once they were inside Sherlock’s flat, honestly meaning it. ‘Really... really lovely -- Sherlock, is that a _skull_?’

‘Helps me think,’ Sherlock said as though it were perfectly natural to keep a skull on one’s mantelpiece.

‘Right. Fine,’ John said, taking his coat off and hanging it on the hatstand that Sherlock clearly used as a coat hook as well.

‘I’ll do the tea,’ Sherlock said, appearing to steel himself before walking into his (very untidy, from what John could see through the door) kitchen. John wandered over to Sherlock’s bookshelves and tilted his head to the right in order to read the spines. There was The Bible, of course, an extensive collection of books about the history and doctrine of the Church, various titles concentrating on litany. John even owned a few, feeling a spike of pleasure at having something in common with Sherlock, then a wave of guilt at the warm feeling in his stomach.

Sighing and raising his eyebrows, John continued perusing the books as Sherlock made far more noise than was strictly necessary for making tea. John blinked in surprise at the shelves full of poetry and then frowned at some of the names.

 _Auden. Ginsberg. Whitman. Wilde._

No. He couldn’t... No.

He glanced over his shoulder - Sherlock was still faffing about with the tea, good - and pulled the heavy Ginsberg book off the shelf, its cover dark red. It was well-thumbed and fell open at a page covered in notes in a hand he recognised to be Sherlock’s. John scanned the lines, flushing at the content, feeling conflicted and sick and _so fucking turned on_.

 _Lie down on your bellies, I’ll fuck your soft bun... Turn over spread your strong legs like a lass, I’ll show you the thrill to be jived up the ass... Lay yr head on my shoulder kiss my lined brow, & belly to belly kiss my neck now, Yeah come on tight assed & strong cocked young fools, & shove up my belly your hard tender tools... Come in my arms, groan your sweet will, Come again in my mouth, lie silent & still, Let me come in your butt, hold my head on your leg, Let’s come together, & tremble & beg._

John gasped and pushed the book back onto the shelf, swallowing down the horrid sick feeling he’d grown used to in recent months.

‘I did ask, John, whether you had sugar in your tea,’ Sherlock said quietly. John spun round, trying to compose his face, his head, his heart, his gut.

‘S-sorry, I must not have heard you. Two. Please,’ John stammered. Sherlock stepped forward until he was right in front of John and stretched his hand out, resting his thumb against the pulse point in John’s neck, which was fluttering frantically under Sherlock’s hand.

‘I’ve seen, John,’ he murmured, his voice deeper than usual, and oh, _oh_ , John was going to hell. ‘I’ve seen the way you watch me when you think I’m not looking. You stick your tongue out when you’re thinking, did you know? Usually when you’re struggling with something, in your head, your tongue sticks out a little bit. I noticed it a year ago when we went over ambiguous bits of scripture together in the sacristy. Six months ago, after you witnessed that car accident and started questioning your faith - I know about that too, don’t try and tell me otherwise - you started doing it when you were watching me.’

John frowned, his mouth slightly open.

‘Combined with various other things I’ve pieced together and the erection you were sporting while reading Ginsberg’s poetry - you didn’t answer when I asked you about sugar so I stood in the doorway and watched you - I’ve come to the conclusion that, as a result of your witnessing the accident, you are questioning your faith and as a result of _that_ your deeply-repressed homosexuality, possibly bisexuality, is rising to the surface and you’re wondering what it would be like to shove me against that wall and kiss me, would you say I’m right?’

Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, John closed his eyes and shook his head.

‘You’re wrong.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You’re _wrong_.’

Sherlock bent his head and took John’s face in his large hands. ‘I’m never wrong, John,’ he murmured, looking into John’s eyes before leaning in and pressing their lips together.

For a second, John did nothing. But then he realised, that Sherlock was _never_ wrong, he was frighteningly clever and incredibly observant and he was right, John _did_ want this. John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth and grabbed Sherlock’s hair as he’d done so many times in his dreams, walking backwards until Sherlock was indeed shoved against the wall and John was kissing the breath out of him.

Groaning, Sherlock ran his hands down John’s arms, holding onto him tightly. John bit Sherlock’s bee-stung bottom lip and licked his way into Sherlock’s mouth, pressing their bodies together, clutching desperately at Sherlock’s hair because it had been _so long_. John moaned again as their tongues tangled, his chest heaving as he fought for breath but not wanting to pull away because if he pulled away he’d have to... he’d have to...

‘Sherlock,’ he gasped, closing his eyes and frowning.

‘Don’t,’ Sherlock said.

‘We can’t just... Sherlock, I’m a priest, you’re training to be one, we can’t--’

‘John--’

‘I’m so sorry, I should never have... I ought to go,’ John said, stepping back again, absently touching his lips. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘John, this is hardly your fault,’ Sherlock said, glaring, and John shook his head.

‘No. No, it is, I’m sorry, Sherlock, I can’t, I’m sorry--’

‘For fuck’s sake, John, you’re not exactly leading me astray!’ Sherlock shouted.

John shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, throwing the door open and walking through it. ‘I’m sorry.’

***

On Monday morning, it was John's turn to do confession. The irony of it was not lost on him. He'd been on edge, bordering on hysterical since the previous afternoon. What was he going to do? What could he possibly do? Moving to Timbuktu was starting to become a good option; at least then he'd be away from Sherlock's eyes and his legs and his voice and that _mouth_ and his bloody, sodding, brilliant mind that knew far too much, knew much more than it should. He couldn't carry on like this, that was for certain, he couldn't carry on doing his job – at least not _responsibly_ \- and kissing men, kissing _Sherlock_ at the same time.

The door to the booth next to him opened and closed. 'In the name of the Father, the Son and of the Holy Spirit, amen,' John said automatically, still distracted.

He couldn't do his job like this, he just couldn't.

'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,' a deep, rumbling voice said and John groaned inwardly, resting the back of his head against the smooth wood of the confessional.

‘Sherlock, this is hardly--’

‘It has been a week since my last confession,’ Sherlock interrupted, and John sighed, rubbing his eyes. Whether he liked it or not, Sherlock was clearly determined that he hear this.

‘And what is it you want to confess to?’ John murmured, resigning himself.

‘Yesterday I invited a friend to my flat with ulterior motives and intentions I couldn’t exactly describe as good,’ Sherlock said quietly. ‘I deliberately left pornographic poetry where I knew he’d find it and used that as an excuse to let him know everything I’d deduced about him over the course of the year. I put an unnecessary amount of pressure on him which led to him kissing me which in turn compromised his faith and confused him. I was unkind, and what I did was wrong. I’m sorry.’

John swallowed, never having expected to hear an apology come from Sherlock’s mouth. ‘Look--’ he began, but Sherlock interrupted him again.

‘After he’d left, I went to my bedroom and masturbated,’ he said, his voice throaty, and John bit back a gasp. When Sherlock spoke again he sounded closer and John glanced up at the wooden separating the two booths, catching sight of a lengthy, pale neck and full red lips and Sherlock’s strong jaw, thrown into shadow. Sherlock’s fingers - long and thin and _perfect_ \- were poking through the small holes of the grille. Pale eyes met his. John couldn’t hold back his gasp this time. ‘I stripped myself naked and stretched out on my bed and stroked my cock thinking of you, John Watson, I sucked on two of my fingers and pretended it was your prick and I pushed them into myself as I got myself off, wishing you were fucking me and holding me down and taking what was yours.’

John closed his eyes after a long moment, aching with want, his cock straining against his underwear.

‘I came harder than I’ve ever done in my life,’ Sherlock purred through the wooden grille.

John couldn’t stand it any longer. He threw the door of his part of the confessional open and glanced around the cathedral - thankfully deserted - before he pulled desperately on the door to Sherlock’s part of the confessional, falling inside and onto Sherlock, mouth seeking mouth, hands seeking skin, _needing_ this. John heard the lock twist as Sherlock’s long arms wrapped around him and Sherlock shoved his tongue into John’s mouth. They kissed and pressed against one another for a long minute before John pulled away, mumbling frantically against Sherlock’s cheek.

‘I was twenty, I’d been training to be a doctor, a boy died and it was my fault, Sherlock, I needed to be forgiven,’ he whispered. ‘That accident and... and _you_ , and I can’t do this any more, Sherlock, this isn’t who I am.’

‘I know,’ Sherlock said, kissing John again, distracting and heady and wonderful. ‘I know, John, I know.’

They kissed until John was crawling out of his skin with desperation, need and want coursing through his veins. He shoved Sherlock against the confessional wall and took hold of his cock, stroking firmly, mouthing Sherlock’s neck as he did so. ‘So long,’ he murmured, running his other hand over Sherlock’s chest and ribs, his waist and his stomach. ‘So long, Sherlock, you have no idea--’

‘Shh,’ Sherlock murmured, stroking the back of John’s neck, kissing him again, pressing their hips together. Both men groaned at the contact and John no longer cared about what was right and wrong, what people would say, how he really ought not to be doing this. _This_ was who he was: imperfect, incomplete, complex, _human_. This was what he needed. Gasping as Sherlock’s hand opened enough buttons of his cassock for access, John pushed forwards eagerly, whimpering when Sherlock took him in hand and it had been years and years and years... ‘Come for me, John,’ Sherlock growled.

And John did.

***

 _Epilogue  
One year later_

‘I still can’t believe you went to that much effort to solve a case,’ John said mildly, observing Sherlock from the armchair that was very much _his_ in their living room at 221B Baker Street.

‘I was never bored, John,’ Sherlock replied, not lifting his eyes from the heavy tome that lay open on his lap, one finger running across that _gorgeous_ bottom lip in concentration. ‘And besides,’ he added. ‘I managed to corrupt you while I was at it.’ He looked up and smirked.

John laughed softly and shook his head, sipping his tea before returning to the medical journal he’d been trying to plough his way through to help with his exam on Monday. ‘I was corrupt enough before you, Sherlock Holmes,’ he said, though his voice was fond.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said, jumping up off the sofa, all legs and arms as he stood on the coffee table (as always), stepped off and bent down to press a kiss to John’s lips. ‘Only now you’re going to the special hell.’ He smiled.

John kissed him again and brushed Sherlock’s curls back off his face.

‘Worth it,’ he said quietly.

Sherlock beamed.


End file.
